Writing General

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Re: Writing General

Post by Furburt on Tue Jul 31, 2012 10:35 am

Then I shall leave it in your capable lungs.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Furburt on Mon Aug 13, 2012 2:25 pm

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5835837/2/My_Immortal_The_Return

Yaay, there's still somewhere to read My Immortal online!

Enjoy what's either the shittiest fanfic or the best trollfic ever.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Xandy on Tue Sep 18, 2012 4:46 pm

For some reason I want to write a crackfic really bad. Thinking of making it a crossover between Die Hard and something else, and maybe have it involve Nazis trying to take over the Falkland Islands. Need more ideas though.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Komrade Kharloth on Tue Sep 18, 2012 4:55 pm

John Maclean has been recruited by special order of the president to save the Brits in the Falkland islands from the Argentines, but when he arrives it's suddenly zombies! And then he teams up with captain price from Modern Warfare to fight the zombies. But then he finds out that all the nazis who fled to Argentina after WW2 are still alive, and Hitler is their secret sorcerer-king and that he invented the zombie plague for the return of his Argentinan fourth reich!

So they battle Wizard-Hitler and his silly hispanic nazis and then after they kill him, they find a book saying that he got his magic zombie powers from the President of Islam, who is actually the son of the devil, so Captain Price and John Maclean tear shit up in the middle east looking for him.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Katzenjammer on Tue Sep 18, 2012 6:03 pm

And they all lived happily ever after.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Xandy on Tue Sep 18, 2012 7:42 pm

Sounds like good ideas. Right now I'm considering shoehorning in some Black Lagoon or Hellsing characters for extra hilarity.

Also, already managed to come up with a potential pretentious latin title - Memento Mori Durus (Remember You Will Die Hard).

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Re: Writing General

Post by Komrade Kharloth on Tue Sep 18, 2012 7:55 pm

If there's one thing I'm good at, it's terrible ideas.

Also, be sure to inject whatever disgusting fetishes you have into the story at points that don't make any sense and dwell on them for several sentences.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Xandy on Mon Oct 22, 2012 4:03 am

>want to run a Quest on /tg/
>write up a basic fantasy backdrop for it to be set in
>make it very generic and simple, world based on Medieval Europe with elves and orcs etc.
>come up with some cool ideas regarding magic, decide to integrate these into the setting to make the Quest more interesting
>come up with some cool ideas regarding cultures/politics, decide to integrate these as well to make the setting more interesting and less barebones
>come up with some great ideas for recurring characters that could make the Quest more stand-out
>months pass
>still haven't made Quest
>now have a setting with forty different character ideas, twenty different cultures, a ton of social/political issues for each faction, a series of batshit magic-theistic systems, nihilistic Lovecraftian pirates, Zoroastrian viking elves, Darwinist nazi/mongol orcs and demonhunter cossacks

I'm not sure if I want to make a Quest or a novel anymore.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Hubilub on Mon Oct 22, 2012 8:33 am

It'll probably be all shit and unoriginal anyway.

It always is

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Re: Writing General

Post by MilkyFresh on Mon Oct 22, 2012 8:42 am

Make a novel

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Re: Writing General

Post by MilkyFresh on Mon Oct 22, 2012 8:42 am

Seriously, do it

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Re: Writing General

Post by Xandy on Mon Oct 22, 2012 2:39 pm

Hubilub wrote:It'll probably be all shit and unoriginal anyway.

It always is

Why are you such a pessimist

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Re: Writing General

Post by Komrade Kharloth on Mon Oct 22, 2012 2:50 pm

Xandy wrote:
Hubilub wrote:It'll probably be all shit and unoriginal anyway.

It always is

Why are you such a pessimist
Swedes hate and get depressed by everything.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Xandy on Mon Oct 22, 2012 2:55 pm

Komrade Kharloth wrote:
Xandy wrote:
Hubilub wrote:It'll probably be all shit and unoriginal anyway.

It always is

Why are you such a pessimist
Swedes hate and get depressed by everything.

That's because they realize Carolus Rex is never coming back, and that he will never overthrow their current socialist government to install a holy Scandanavia-spanning empire.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Xandy on Thu Nov 15, 2012 8:52 pm

>spend forever coming up with ideas for an extreme nobledark setting
>never manage to write any stories for it, get mildly depressed whenever I try

Goddammit.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Xandy on Thu Nov 15, 2012 9:47 pm

Maybe I should try writing something more lighthearted...

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Re: Writing General

Post by Xandy on Fri Nov 23, 2012 2:02 am

FUCK THAT I'MMA WRITE A DEPRESSING AS FUCK HORROR SCENE

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Re: Writing General

Post by Furburt on Fri Nov 23, 2012 9:18 am

Write a story about finding a magical pit of staplers inside the depths of your schizophrenia.

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Re: Writing General

Post by MilkyFresh on Fri Nov 23, 2012 12:09 pm

Write a story about Hub raping me

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Re: Writing General

Post by Komrade Kharloth on Fri Nov 23, 2012 1:38 pm

Milky sat quietly in his room, it was somewhere in the early morning, but on Saturdays, time had no meaning for him. He stroked his scraggly beard, and re adjusted his sunglasses (because fuckit, sunglasses are always appropriate). He sifted through his favorite Korean porn sites, signed a petition to have the word Cunt replace the Union Jack on the Aussie flag, and went back to refreshing Mellow Leprechauns, in the hope that someone would post.

Off in the distance, he could hear the faint sound of heavy footfalls approaching his room. He suspected it was yet another of those cattle-sized Australian spiders looking to make it's way somewhere warm. As he turned back to the dim glow of his computer, his door slammed open.

There, stood a tall, blonde lanky bastard, dressed in leather one-body suit that was far too tight. Hub, He realized, he knew this day would come, the day when one would finally assert his dominance of the other in the field of battle and anal sex. "OI THOUGHT I SMELLED CUNT" he grinned through nicotine stained teeth. "It is time freshmilky" hub said quietly as he reached into one of his many belts and pulled out a switchblade.

Milky began laughing and groped his balls in a tradition sign of Australian derision, "You call that a noife? THIS is a noife!" He reached into a pile of garbage and wet tissues that sat beside his desk, and pulled out his infamous claymore sword, named Hatefucker. The swede, for the first time in his life, showed a human emotion; fear. Milky lept up from the chair with a battle cry of "AUSSIE AUSSIE AUSSIE OI OI OI", swinging wildly at Hub, but to no avail, the Swede's thiness allowed him to easily move away from the blade and soon found himself on the defensive as Hub kept stabbing at his eyes with the switchblade.

"Keep still you lanky cunt before I chop off your leg and rape your eyesocket" Hub stared at him intensely and did some sort of Hannibal Lector tongue-flicking, and milky felt a pang of terror as his bladder loosened, luckily he was nude from the waist down and just pissed on the floor. Hub suddenly slashed him across the stomach, knocking him to the ground and leaving a bloody 10 inch cut across his stomach. Hub began undoing several of his belts, staring at milky with a little line of drool coming out the corner of his mouth. Milky scrambled towards his bed, reaching under it in the hopes of finding some sort of Australian creature to hurl at hub, when his hand touched something furry, he grinned with delight.

"EAT DROP BEAR YOU CUNT" he roared as he hurled a small, koala like creature at Hub. The creature screamed and extended it's claws, latching onto Hub's face, biting and clawing with fierce abandon. Milky staggered over to him, sword in hand. Hub ripped the Drop Bear from his face and threw it out the window, his hair and scalp were ripped out, leaving several bloody chunks. He touched his hair and a look of pure fury came over him. He leapt onto the ceiling and began scrambling around on all fours, his head spinning and vomiting like some sort of disgusting sprinkler.

Milky was blinded and thrown into confusion by the vomit, and stumbled around the room, falling onto his bed to shield himself. Immediately he felt the weight of another man land on top of him and knew he was done for. The Swede dug his claws into his hips, and pulled a small, rancid fish out of a pouch, the kind that only Scandinavians eat, he swallowed it whole like an owl, and looked at milky with a grin.

"I HAVE EATEN, AND NOW I MUST MATE"

And milky screamed.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Hubilub on Fri Nov 23, 2012 1:44 pm

Nobel prize in literature

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Re: Writing General

Post by Xandy on Fri Nov 23, 2012 2:03 pm

:Asian-clap:

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Re: Writing General

Post by MilkyFresh on Fri Nov 23, 2012 2:54 pm

I lost my fucking shit dude, seriously. Fuck.

Let's do more of this, this is fun. Give me one

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Re: Writing General

Post by Xandy on Fri Nov 23, 2012 9:18 pm

Story about Kharloth defending his home against invading kikes.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Mr. Wiggles on Sat Nov 24, 2012 1:23 pm

Xandy wrote:Story about Kharloth defending his home against invading kikes.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Xandy on Sat Nov 24, 2012 4:01 pm

Also the leader of the kikes turns out to be Teddy.

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Re: Writing General

Post by MilkyFresh on Sat Nov 24, 2012 4:30 pm

Kharloth sat in the corner of his room farthest from the window, the smell of petrol burning his nostrils. He was motionless, nursing his Mosin while he rocked back and forth. Each blink was a moment of agonising vulnerability. The sun should be up shortly, he thought, but his phone was too far to reach out for, too much of a risk. He would just have to wait and see. It didn't matter. If he lived to see the sun rise it would be meaningless, these were no horror movie monsters. They wouldn't turn to ash when bathed in the radiance of God's light. There were no rare root vegetables or ancient incantations to keep them at bay, no loopholes in their genetic structure to exploit. They were outside, waiting. Waiting for him to slip up before they attacked. That's how these creatures operated; not with strength but with intelligence and patience.
They knew where he was, Kharloth was sure of that much. They could smell his sweat and his fear.
His eyes remained locked on the window. He had barricaded his door securely when he first heard the reports on the radio: scattered incidents at first, to those unwilling to listen they were seemingly without connection to each other. Rising housing prices, a weakening economy. Most would assume these were the results of an inept government, but the Komrade knew better, he had seen this before. It wasn't long before they emerged in force, seeping out of the shadows and the cracks in the walls, their thick, grotesque proboscises raised high above their greasy curls and offensively ridiculous yarmulkes.
Kharloth had heard them arrive at his property around midnight, a cavalcade or purring Audis and BMWs that were blacker than their kapotehs but nowhere near as dark as their souls. They had surrounded his property, paid for by the sweat from his brow, brandishing notices of eviction and fountain pens while screaming "signature! signature!". He was already prepared. He managed to take down two of them before the rest scattered on all fours, pouncing through the trees and back into the darkness. When he had looked back the bodies were gone.
They had taken his mother within the hour, dragging her off to their multistory office building, from which no property or material good has ever returned. God only knows what documents they were having her sign now. Kharloth shuddered to think. Then, suddenly, as if the yids has sensed his distraction, three of them had poured into his room. Had he glanced away? Surely for no more than a second. The window remained closed and the door barricaded firmly. There was no use trying to understand the workings of these beasts. The leader of the three, identifiable by his heavily pockmarked face and deformed muzzle, wheezed heavily and opened his gaping maw.
"We have come for your house Komrade. Due to the inconvenience you have caused us by your non compliance up to this point, we have added to your debt the total expenses incurred to us by you through your deliberate and harmful actions."
The Kike paused momentarily and the rest of his flock could be heard breathing laboured, rasping breaths through their hooked beaks.
"In total your debt now stands at six hundred and eighteen thousand, nine hundred and twenty two dollars, payable immediately by cheque or direct transaction. You have seven days to comply."
Kharloth's hatred and disgust boiled inside him, and, like a kettle screaming steam from its spout, poured out of him in the form of hot lead hellfire.
CRACK
His first shot emptied the brains of the elder yid onto the wall behind him, running a black smear to the floor as they oozed down.
CRACK
The second shot caught the kike on the left in his throat, he fell to the floor sputtering as bile discharged itself violently from his trachea.
CRACK CRACK CRACK
The third jew fell dead on the floor, his arms in front of him in a feeble and cowardly attempt to protect his nose from harm.

The Komrade walked slowly over to the window, reloading his weapon as he did so. The first rays of sunshine were coming in over the trees, illuminating the snowy landscape to reveal thousands and thousands of yids standing in formation, observing from kilometres away. Each one clasped a yellowing contract in his claw, his eyes beady and devoid of life. Kharloth showed no fear, he simply stared out at the sea of cultural gonorrhea in front of him and silently accepted his fate. He reached into this pocket and pulled out a box of safety matches, before slowly removing one from the rest and holding it up high.
"MADE IN CANADA" he heroically roared, before striking the match and engulfing his house in a fireball of burning light a thousand feet high.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Komrade Kharloth on Sat Nov 24, 2012 4:35 pm

GOOD SHOW.

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Re: Writing General

Post by Mr. Wiggles on Sat Nov 24, 2012 4:41 pm

Truly brilliant. Who's writing next?

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Re: Writing General

Post by Mr. Wiggles on Sat Nov 24, 2012 4:43 pm

Proposal A:

Lord Cuthberton visits the Labour Party Conference.

Proposal B:

PayJ visits the local gym.

VOTE NOW!

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Re: Writing General

Post by PayJ on Sat Nov 24, 2012 4:44 pm

That was classic.

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Re: Writing General

Post by PayJ on Sat Nov 24, 2012 4:46 pm

@Wiggles: Funny you should say that I'm going to the gym next week with a couple of the kids from college. Could be an experience, also interested to see how strong I am in terms of weightlifting having never touched a dumbbell.

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Re: Writing General

Post by MilkyFresh on Sat Nov 24, 2012 5:00 pm

I NOMINATE WIGGLES FOR PROPOSAL A

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Re: Writing General

Post by Mr. Wiggles on Sat Nov 24, 2012 5:11 pm

Well that's ruined proposal B.

Proposal A it is!

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Re: Writing General

Post by Mr. Wiggles on Sat Nov 24, 2012 7:33 pm

Well, due to time constraints, you can have the first installment without the finale or you can wait for the full thing a bit later, hours or days.

It is a good few pages already though.

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Mr. Wiggles
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Re: Writing General

Post by Mr. Wiggles on Sat Nov 24, 2012 7:49 pm

Fuckkit.

I'm posting it now.

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Mr. Wiggles
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Re: Writing General

Post by Mr. Wiggles on Sat Nov 24, 2012 7:49 pm

I stared wide-eyed as Robin Gibb walked on stage and began to sing, pop hits from a bygone era. Normally, I would have done anything to avoid hearing the over-rated crooning which Gibb purported. I was sat beside the aisle and was considering leaving, until I got a grip of myself. I was stronger than that. You may be wondering, what was I doing at the Labour Party Conference in the first place?

Let me explain my story: I was born in the year 1991 and it was the closest to a utopia state, the world has ever seen. I grew up in the greatest country in the world and at the head stood the greatest man alive. I look back now with blissful nostalgia at the peaceful prosperity that I enjoyed but like all good things, my brief period in paradise came to a disastrous end.

Whilst I had been frolicking with my Gameboy, a greaseball politician, by the name of Tony Blair, seized control of the Labour Party, a shadowy cabal of Marxist puppets who danced to the tune of the militant Trade Unions. Under Blair and his sinister cabinet of privately-educated spin doctors, the Labour Party re-established itself as New Labour. No more did they want to place every industry at the mercy of their union overlords and gone also were the cries to seize the assets of growth-makers and spread them amongst the asylum seekers and work-shy. At least that’s what they claimed. In truth, New Labour had woven itself, an intricate façade of deceit and mistruths and even more sickeningly, the people fell for it. They no longer had faith in the humble statesman that was John Major. Instead; they fled in pursuit of the glitz and glamour promised to them by the illusive New Labour.

The year was 1997 and I had just celebrated my sixth birthday, I remember it clearly. That was the day Blair’s demonic reign began. For thirteen years, I held my breath, waiting, hoping, praying for a general election. Day by day, things grew worse, recessions hit, terrorists attacked and we colluded with the Americans on hopeless conquests to steal the oil from the Middle East. Heads hung low, as the hard-working men and women found their pockets being pilfered all for the great cause of the welfare state, allowing the lazy to prosper on benefits, claiming disability cheques for an ingrown toenail. No one spoke of pride. No one spoke of honour. There was no King and Country. There was only a foul cackling as Bob Crow had at last taken power of the Great British Socialist State.

By that time, Blair had considered stepping down from his position as First Commissar of the Socialist Worker’s State of Great Britain and handing power to his lackey, Gordon Brown, a pudgy Scottish Cyclops who had the charisma of an autistic lemon. However, in his one-eyed bewilderment, Brown mistakenly labelled a noble pensioner as bigoted, live on TV. The story spread like wildfire. At last, the people cried out in horror against the repulsive arrogance of New Labour but alas, it did not last long. Fearing insurrection, Bob Crow demanded that Blair returned immediately to the spotlight. Using his signature combination of mistruths and false statistics, he lulled the unwitting sheep back to their blind acceptance of his government’s policies.

So it fell to me, Henry J. Woodgate, to finally restore pride and dignity to our small island nation and to make Britain great once again. From the day Labour seized power; I trained myself for the future, for my destiny. I worked hard despite the constant recession, making a career for myself in broadsheet journalism and eventually found a job at the The National Newspaper of Socialist Truth, formerly known as The Guardian.

For years, I pretended to be one of the crowd, just another tool who swallowed every crock of shit Alastair Campbell fed him and at last, my time came. I was finally given the chance to provide coverage at The Labour Party Conference. I remember weeping as I read the email, at last honour would return to England.

Robin Gibb had now given up his watered down imitation of entertainment and had allowed tonight’s main speaker to take the stage.


“Ahem, BRITAIN FORWARD NOT BACK!” cried the loudspeaker. “BRITAIN FORWARD NOT BACK” bleated the crowd. This repeated itself for several minutes.
Leaning into the microphone, Tony Blair called out “Any questions?” I raised my hand to the sky. “Yes, you there, gentleman with the walking stick?”
“Hello, I am from The National Newspaper of Socialist Truth” I said, slowly walking toward the stage. I continued down the aisle “and my question is this, Mr. Blair.”

By now, I was only a metre from the steps leading to the stage but my path was blocked by two burly Labour representatives. I recognised them from my training; one was John Prescott, a violent Chief Enforcer for Labour. Stood beside Prescott, it was none other than the treacherous Alastair Campbell, renowned for his lightening speed of thought and slimy charisma.

My voice fired with the fuel of patriotism, I called out “Your party claims to represent the working man, yet you have introduced a deliberately low level for the National Minimum Wage. What say you?”

Prescott and Campbell said nothing. Blair began to retort “Um… Well you see...”

However, I interjected before he could complete his sentence. “Your Minimum Wage policies are limiting employment as no foreign corporation is willing to invest in such an anti-business environment.” Blair just smiled at me blankly so I went on. “Speaking of the environment, Prime Minister, your government has set aside less funding to protect the Great British countryside than any previous government. Not to mention, your total failure to mark out any area of land as a public playing field as outlined in The Chalmsley Report of 2006.”

At this point, Campbell sprung into action. “Now that is not exactly true and I suspect you are aware of this. In fact, under New Labo- AGH”

Smoke wafted from the barrel of my flintlock duelling pistol as Campbell fell back onto the steps with a gut full of lead shot. The crowd went into panic. Sensing my distraction, Prescott swung a left hook at my chin. He had made the mistake of using his trademark attack. I quickly parried his blow with my silver and rosewood cane before gripping the cane with both hands, and striking his temple with all my might. I fell back into the seating, my balance completely lost as a result of a leg injury that Blair’s NHS had failed to mend. When I pulled myself to my feet, I saw the yolk of Prescott’s boiled egg head smeared over the floor.

Immediately, I shuffled up the steps over the body of Alastair Campbell who lay their muttering about someone called “Fernando”. Blair was still foolishly stood at the podium, trying to reassure the few remaining in the crowd. “This was all perfectly intentional! We had always planned a major cabinet reshuffle!”

I stumbled towards Blair, both pistols in my belt were cocked. “YOU BROKE BRITAIN, BLAIR!”

He swung around in shock and began backing away from me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about my Government has doubled average pay levels and workers now experience longer holiday times than ever before.”

“Do you know what this is?” I raised the cane gripping it at each end.

Blair piped up. “Sorry… can you rephrase the question?”

Blood thundered in my ears. I bellowed out loud. “In my hands lies the blade used to oust Heseltine.” I unsheathed the blade concealed within the cane, taking my time. Before uttering, “Now Tony, do you have any final words?”

But I had acted too hastily. In the moment, I had forgotten my training.

From nowhere, Blair’s voice had an unusual strength to it. “Labour is working, motherfucker.” Then from his jacket, he produced a mini-uzi.

In my panic, I slipped backwards. My unreliable balance sent me tumbling off stage, narrowly avoiding a burst of fire from Blair. I pulled myself off the ground again only to find myself twelve paces away from Gordon Brown. The lumbering Scotsman charged straight for me. I scrambled around for my cane. Seeing it under the front row of seats, I desperately grasped it, just in the nick of time. As I arose to my feet, I lifted the blade high, impaling the pudgy Cyclops through his working eye. His body spasmed briefly, before going limp. I tried to retrieve the sword but it was stuck fast and my attempts only put further stress on the blade.

Looking up, I saw Blair sprinting out of the fire exit. I had waited too long for this to fail now. I heaved myself onto the stage and hurried after him, struggling to keep pace without support for my leg. I shuffled out into the dingy alley behind the arena. To the left, there were some bins. Looking to the right, I saw a figure getting into the back of a black Range Rover, with what appeared to be Peter Mandelson at the wheel. At a loss, I stumbled to the pavement clinging to the wall to keep me upright.

It was too late though. There was no way I could catch up with Blair.

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You can buy a dream or two to last you all the years, and the only price you'll pay is a heart full of tears.
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Mr. Wiggles
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Re: Writing General

Post by PayJ on Sat Nov 24, 2012 8:05 pm

"my balance completely lost as a result of a leg injury that Blair’s NHS had failed to mend"

Had me cracking up. Also the Prescott being egged references were fresh to say the least.

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PayJ
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Re: Writing General

Post by Mr. Wiggles on Sat Nov 24, 2012 8:06 pm

I'm just writing the finale now. I reckon I could have made a whole fanfic from this.

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You can buy a dream or two to last you all the years, and the only price you'll pay is a heart full of tears.
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Mr. Wiggles
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Re: Writing General

Post by LordCuthberton on Sat Nov 24, 2012 8:23 pm

PayJ wrote:"my balance completely lost as a result of a leg injury that Blair’s NHS had failed to mend"

Had me cracking up.

I too lost my composure there.

I don't know what's worse, that you no so much about me Wiggles or that this situation you've concocted seems strangely appropriate.

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